


Our Numbered Days

by Birdie_Lo_Green



Series: 31 Day Prompt Advent by dreaminghour [1]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Food Porn, Inspired by Hades and Persephone (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore), M/M, Somebody get Will Graham some greasy fast food, Wine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-29
Updated: 2020-05-29
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:47:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24443821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Birdie_Lo_Green/pseuds/Birdie_Lo_Green
Summary: Hannibal's first meal out of prison makes use of the bare cupboards of his cliff house and the symbolism in Greek mythology.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Series: 31 Day Prompt Advent by dreaminghour [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1765384
Comments: 4
Kudos: 23





	Our Numbered Days

**Author's Note:**

> This was written as part of a 31 Day Prompt Advent. Created by my friend and fellow writer @dreaminghour for December 2019, each prompt was a random photo and a word. Both have been included at the end of this prompt.

“This is what you want as your first meal out of prison?” Will looked at the plain display of ingredients: half a pomegranate, a handful of dried cranberries and a cup of golden tea, all served upon a slim platter of curved acacia, and he felt the symbolism deep in his bones.  
“My first and my last,” Hannibal replied and Will felt that too, “Just like dread Persephone.”   
Greek mythology had always been too rich in tragedy for Will’s tastes, but he knew of Persephone. The daughter of Demeter, goddess of fertility, she was kidnapped by Hades and taken to the Underworld. Doomed to remain there once she had eaten from its fruits, six pomegranate seeds had chained Persephone to Hades for six months of the year. Her mother’s mourning was winter, her joy a bountiful harvest come summer. 

After what felt like six months on the road and smashing his head on the ceiling of an armoured van, Will’s knees were weak and the ground moved underfoot like scree. Hannibal drew a seat for him at the table and he sank into it, grateful and impatient. There was not enough food laid out for three.   
Will rolled up his sleeves, picked up the pomegranate shaped like the chambers of a human heart and squeezed. Juice and seeds dripped into his mouth and down his arms. Hannibal’s hand closed tight around the cranberries he was holding: red, black and shining like dried blood. Stained hands laid out on the black tabletop, Will’s palms were open and stained, ribbons up his arms like infection tracking a vein. Silently Hannibal replaced his cranberries and came around the table to attend to him. Taking Will's hands, he wiped both clean with a linen napkin as lovingly as Mary Magdalene washing the wounds of Christ.  
“If either of us is Hades,” Will said, taking the napkin and cleaning his own face. “It’s you.” Hannibal nodded and reclaimed his seat across the table, raising his cup of tea in a toast.  
“And and as such I treasure our numbered days.” Will reached to take the dried cranberries from Hannibal’s plate. Warm still from his hands, the taste was as sharp and sour as all they had done to one another.   
“The pomegranate.” Leaning over the table, Will addressed the display in the same way he once lectured students at the FBI. “In clear reference to Botticelli’s Madonna and child, flanked by six angels. Provided as a rattle for Jesus and a symbol of his future suffering.” Hannibal nodded his head and said:  
“It's also highly nutritious: three times the polyphenols of red wine _and_ green tea.”   
“This tea…” Will sipped at his own glass. “It’s...saffron.” Hannibal confirmed and expanded:  
“Your tongue is maturing. Known as ‘the sunshine spice’ for its ability to alleviate depression.” Laughing under his breath, Will straightened up.  
“So you want me to enjoy the suffering that’s coming?” Hannibal drained the last of his tea with a smile. Will held his own out to him and he stood to take it, their fingers brushing as the cup exchanged hands. Hannibal stared at him, lips sipping where Will’s had just been. “You’re going to be positively euphoric.”  
“As it should always be with killing.” In one of their first conversations, shortly after Will had shot a man who cannibalised college girls, Hannibal had reassured Will that God enjoyed killing too.  
“Then why the damn cranberries?” He’d told him how God dropped a church roof on 34 of his followers whilst they sang a hymn, that the intention was a display of his power over them.  
“Natural source of sugar,” Hannibal replied smugly, “We’re going to need the energy.” Will turned and walked away to the piano, fingering the keys. “Especially for an audience with _the Great Red Dragon_.” Hand lingering at Will’s back, Hannibal thought better of sitting and playing, a funeral tune.  
“I’d prefer a glass of red wine,” Will sighed and Hannibal smiled. Retreating to the cellar, he searched for the perfect vintage, stronger than death and with a bouquet of rebirth and temporal breath. In wine was truth and in the living room, Will was standing again by Hannibal's piano staring out of the window at the full moon.

"You're playing games with yourself in the dark of the moon."

**Image** : 

**Word** : Scree (sloping mass of loose rock at the base of a cliff)

[**Inspiration** : https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/45292/hymn-to-proserpine-after-the-proclamation-in-rome-of-the-christian-faith](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/45292/hymn-to-proserpine-after-the-proclamation-in-rome-of-the-christian-faith)


End file.
